Service to be Proud Of
by the bonesinger of yme-loc
Summary: 'He has three hundred men left. He has left nine thousand in an orbital tomb.' CC-2224 and the survivors of his command rally in the crumbling ruins of a long lost civilization and hold the line against an unknown foe. [Prompted by a bloodmatch request on a Who Would Win forum]. Probably complete
1. Author Note

Originating from a bloodmatch request on the subreddit 'Who would win', this is a short about CC-2224, or 'Cody', facing down a division of Covenant troops. The request was that the Republic forces be two hundred or so, fortified in Helm's Deep. (This is a popular locale for defensive matchups, even if it's a woefully inadequate position for anything outside of medieval settings). I should note the fortification within is based off of the _proper_ Helm's Deep, which was quite large and encircled by Helm's Dike.

Arrayed against the Republic troops is several hundred Covenant, and if this sounds like it's unfair, well, it was. I didn't come up with the prompt, I just filled it. It is also written almost entirely in first person, though there are tense switches depending on recollections. If I have missed any in my editing, please let me know.

I'm happy with how it turned out, and I [ _may actually return to wrap it up more suitably at another point_ ] actually returned to wrap it up. Cheers!

A thank you to George Lucas for crafting this universe, and graciously allowing us to experience it.


	2. Service to be Proud Of

_Well, at least it was well built._

CC-2224 looks up at the brewing storm with his own eyes. His helmet is next to him, battered and scuffed but still functioning. There is a respite, now, but it will not last. The iron-grey churn above threatens rain, and mentally he curses the misfortune. The poor weather will benefit the besiegers, not to mention ruin visibility even with thermal vision and scanners.

But it was well built. Though the ancient fortification was slowly crumbling under its own weight and abandonment; it still stood unbroken and sealed off the end of the long, thin valley. The ancient earthworks further along the wending way of the shallow river had been momentarily tempting - positioning the defenses there would more than double the amount of land they held, giving better fallback options and potentially a great amount of time before their backs were to the wall.

But with so few of his men left, that would just be stretching out an already thin white line of armor.

So he had ordered his ragged command to the fortress proper, taking up positions behind the thick stone walls and inside the crumbling keep. Reports from A-82 indicated there was an extensive cave system located within the mountains behind the fortification, and he had troopers lacing the entrances with explosives. If worst came to worst, they could retreat and collapse the entrances, hopefully buying enough time for reinforcements to arrive. This new enemy was strange and more dangerous than any CC-2224 had encountered yet, and the Republic needed a warning.

He sighs and hefts his helmet, taking a moment to stare at the dull lenses. Scuffs and abrasions have worn away some of the paint and created a patchwork of dings and divots across the formerly pristine surface. Not for the first time, he wishes General Kenobi was here. But wishes aren't standard issue Army equipment, so he shoves it aside, and seals his helmet on with a clack, the HUD shimmering to life and communications linking into the local net.

"Upsilon Squad, status report." He is brusque and he speaks only as much as he has to - and those under his command are the same. Efficiency and duty, those are the watchwords he lives his life by. Do your duty, be a good soldier, and make the Republic proud. It is simple and it is all he wants.

"We're dropping the mines as best we can, Commander, but we'll never have enough coverage."

"That's expected. And the earthworks?"

"Primed for collapse. We can bury the gap under a hundred tons of mud and rocks, sir."

"Finish the rest as fast as you can and rendezvous with Iota at grid 12. They have further orders. Cody out."

Cody. A name. Not exactly common among clones, but the training he had undergone with the one called 'Alpha' had changed a lot. Sometimes it still took him a moment or two to respond to the name, but his troopers liked it because it meant their commander was special, which meant they were honored, which meant that the Republic was proud of them. He gestures two ARCs to follow him: A-91 and A-03; the larger clones shadowing him as he makes his way toward the gatehouse. There are still preparations to be made.

* * *

The first raindrops hit like tiny hammers. They strike like dipped glass, exploding on the dry stone in puffs of dust and dirt. They tap-tap-tap on his helmet like an insistent knocking finger, cutting into his professional focus. This is no minor rainstorm.

Already, he has his troops on thermal and night vision; prepared for the deluge to come. The weather does not disappoint.

Within minutes, runnels of water thunder off the walls through the notched crenellations, crashing down dozens of feet to the muck below.

As the broad field turn into mud, CC-2224 rethinks his original position. With the ground this sodden and hazardous, any infantry charges will be mired down and vehicles will have a hell of a time making it through this. He's starting to feel more optimistic about the outcome, with the composites up on the walls of keep; they have full coverage of the killing fields below. Any hung up vehicle will be an easy target.

Now, though, all he can do is wait. Wait for the strange enemies to come.

* * *

He remembers the alarms. _Murmillo_ , detached from Open Circle Armada to investigate odd signals coming from an uncharted world, was already shaking itself to pieces. The information flooding his HUD as he sprinted down corridors was painting a grim picture - half of the _Venator_ class warship was without power and dumping atmosphere into the void; hundreds of his soldiers already lost. No messages were coming or going from the bridge, which he wrote off immediately. The engines were flickering out of synch, wrenching the warships around and stressing its already compromised superstructure.

 _Murmillo_ wasn't going to last long. General evacuation was already ordered, and he skidded into the hangers in time to see the massive overhead doors shred apart. It was only by instinct and a lucky stanchion Cody avoided being hurled into the void as the spinal hanger violently decompressed, hurling half-crushed _Torrent_ fighters and ARC-170s into the void.

But the beautiful sight of fourteen LAAT/i gunships still securely locked down drove him on. Dropping beacons onto them to the surviving clones on board, he shoved off and drifted through the wreckage of the hangar.

The rest had been a blur that even now he barely recalled. Herding what remained of his command into the dropships as the _Murmillo_ tore itself in half under the stresses of its dying engines, watching as the _Venator_ warship cracked in two and vomited debris and bodies into the void, holding on tight to the restraints as the fourteen gunships howled into the atmosphere at ridiculously dangerous speeds.

Listening with impotent frustration as five were shot out of the sky before they could land, consigning another hundred of his men to their deaths. Rattling around in the overcrowded troop bay as the pilots desperately bled altitude as fast as they could. Hearing the bang-crack of the composites as they spoke coherent light at their pursuers, never knowing if the next second would see his service end in a flash of light and heat.

He has three hundred men left. He has left nine thousand in an orbital tomb.

This is not the kind of service he is proud of.

* * *

The first indication their enemy is finally on the move comes when bright purple flashes light up the darkness out past the earthworks. Like flowers, they bloom and die seemingly in midair, high enough up to cast stark shadows across the muddy fields before the fortress.

"Bombardment." A-03 states, one hand resting on the stock of his rifle. Rain pours off his pauldron and down his armor, catching the light of the explosions and throwing a liquid violet cast across the bleach-white armor.

"Testing our shields. Status?" CC-2224 asks, voice flat and calm as could be. Kuat Drive Yards never skimp on their shields, and he is more than confident in their strength. This battle will not be decided by weight of fire from afar, but by strength of tactics and command.

"Gene-ors a little hot, but no-ing serious, sir. We can hold in-initely at three times the stress." There is static to the transmission, blurring the specialist's words, but it is clear enough. He makes a mental note to check on the com repeaters, and then pushes the thought from his mind. Now it is time to see what the enemy will try. Continued bombardment? Ground incursion? Aerial strike?

* * *

Tuls 'Turamee is not pleased. Another wave of fire ripples from the launchers of his Wraiths. Each crackling streak of plasma arcs high, drifting elegantly through the monsoon, only to slam into the invisible barrier of the shields without any visible effect. He growls, mandibles tight, and shakes his head. If the shields had been of Covenant design, then any stress would be visible as they would wax opaque. But these he has not seen before and thus might be on the verge of failure, or could last until the Great Journey began.

He does not have the luxury to wait. His twin brother, Norna 'Turamee, has none of his patience. Already he can sense his brother's frustration as his four-fingered fist flex and relax around the edge of the watch tower. Beneath them, the gravity lift hums and throbs with chained power, and Tuls knows it is only a matter of time before his brother calls off the bombardment.

Not that he disagrees - they have the Prophet's will to enact and every moment they tarry here is an affront to their commandment. He had not expected to encounter any heretic craft in this sector, but the strange vessel bore passing resemblance to the ships of the debased humans, and the Luminary confirmed it. The ship had been weak and easily dispatched, though the presence of shields had been a surprise, even if the plasma lines had still sliced through them with ease. Perhaps it had been an experimental ship of the humans, in which case he savors the thought of the glories he has secured for himself by dispatching it. The humans are trouble enough with their backwards technology: shielding, no matter how primitive, would greatly set back the great crusade.

But the presence of a land-based shield generator only sharpens his suspicions that he has stumbled upon some hidden human testing facility. The Prophet will indeed be pleased. Pushing away from the edge of the platform, he catches his brother's eye, and gestures for him to follow. Norna growls and shoves away from the edge, running long fingers along his energy blade's hilt. His brother longs for combat, for the thrill of the kill and the sound of screaming humans. Both his sons have died to humans on one of their many infested worlds, and Norna exacts retribution a thousandfold. No number of deaths will be enough for his brother, Tuls knows, and is glad for it. There are plenty of humans left in the galaxy, and that kind of dedication honors the Prophets and the Journey.

"My brothers! To me!" His words boom across the battlenet. Sangheili emerge from the murk and the rain, cloven feet splashing in the mud. Unggoy mill about and prepare for war, checking each other's tanks of precious methane and clustering around deacons. The shrill prayers and cries of exultation fill the air. The ground thrums with the battle poems of the Mgalekgolo pairs, and the fluting cries and snarls of the Kig-yar float on the wind.

If the humans can hear the din over the storm they will be shaking indeed, he muses. Such is the might of the Covenant when all stand as one.

His lance leaders converge about him, until all two hundred stand before him in the driving rain. They pay no mind to it as it patters and slides off of shields, all of them comfortable and dry in their armor.

"The humans have designs on copying the works of the gods! Look at how they mock the gifts of the Forerunners with their mimicry!" The last salvo from the Wraiths splashes across the shield, lighting the field again, illuminating the serried ranks and reflecting off angular armor.

"Will we stand for this, my brothers? My elites?" There is a throaty roar of disapproval.

"The humans on this world commit blasphemies against the gods, and against the Covenant! They conspire to upset the Great Journey, and they weave evil technologies where they think the servants of the gods cannot see!" He spreads his arms wide, as if to embrace them all.

"Will we stand for this, my brothers? My elites?" This time the roar is a thunder.

"When we joined the Covenant, we swore an oath!"

" _According to our station! All without exception!_ "

"On the blood of our fathers, on the blood of our sons, we swore to uphold the Covenant!"

" _Even to our dying breath!_ "

"Those who would stand against this Covenant are heretics! Worthy of neither pity nor mercy!"

" _We shall grind them into dust!_ "

"And continue our march to glorious salvation!"

The assembled Sangheili bellow, hammering fists to armored chests, waving plasma swords and carbines in the air. Even the Jiralhanae packs, watching with dubious interest, roar and snarl. Unggoy howl and stamp, Kig-yar jeer, Yanme'e shriek and Mgalekgolo rumble.

"Lance by lance! The Ghosts will lead, with Choppers in support! Wraiths will provide the center strength! Plan of Battle will follow 'Illumination of the Entrenched Heretic'! SpecOps, to me! Move, my brothers! Move, sworn sons of the Covenant! For the Prophet, for Truth, and for the Great Journey!"

The Ghosts leap away on tails of plasma exhaust, Choppers chasing after with throaty roars as the Brutes gun the engines. The Wraith tanks, no longer deployed for bombardment but heavy support converge into a processional line, chasing after their much swifter brothers. Sangheili lance leaders and their troops fall in on either side of the advancing Wraiths, forming an orderly column. The first ghosts slip through the shield without issue, and Tuls nods. As he expected, the shield is much like those the Forerunners blessed them with - able to deflect weapons fire, but vulnerable to vehicles and troops. As his twenty SpecOp elites form up around him, Norna comes to a salute.

This is how they always prosecute war - Norna is the master of deception and chaos, able to hide so easily that shadows forgot him and light overlooked him. Tuls was the master of tactics and a leader of men, and it was he who led the majority of the forces. Together they were a hammer and an anvil - no, a mace and a scalpel. Tuls wielded the blunt force of overwhelming strength, while Norna excised the heart from the enemy.

Tuls salutes his brother, and they clasp their arms in a warrior's embrace. He knows he will see his brother again. The humans cannot kill Norna 'Turamee.


	3. Wishes Aren't Army Issue

CC-2224 isn't bothering to fight. He and A-03 are pouring over a hologram of the local area, watching the red dots indicating the enemy as they advance. Whoever they are, they're cautious. The large blurs of red that indicate their artillery pieces are forming up on the far side of the earthworks, out of line of sight of the walls, and, unfortunately, all of their weaponry. Already, those strange glowing balls of light are flashing up from the artillery pieces and arcing out over the field toward the walls. So far, they're falling short, but he knows they're only range finding. Once they're dialed in on the walls, they can begin taking apart his defenses without any way for him to stop them.

Thus why he and A-03 are pouring over the hologram. Those artillery pieces need to die, and soon. With five squads of commandos and ten ARC troopers, there _has_ to be something he can do. But the problem is how open the fields between the earthworks and the walls are. What was an advantage of an open killing ground is now working against him - any deployment means trying to make their way across almost fifteen hundred feet of open ground before the first real cover of the earthworks. Which are, he realizes ruefully, mined and rigged to explode.

But as the first of the frighteningly deadly bolts strike the wall, eating a fifteen foot hemisphere out of it in a flash of purple and blue lightning and taking six troopers with it, Cody gives the order.

All five Commando squads are to deploy at once with the objective to destroy the artillery.

* * *

He's squirming through the mud in armor caked in filth. Feet at a time, he creeps down the far side of the earthworks, trying not to think of all the explosive he laced into it only hours before. RC-1919, known better as 'King' to his brothers, is the last of his squad. Thimble, Shiv and Tracker are lying back in the field between the fortress and the earthworks. Even their Katarn armor and mud camouflage hadn't hidden them from the alien's sensors. Whatever hit Thimble had vaporized his upper body and left his legs still standing there, calf-deep in the muck. The three of them then tried to slip around the aliens filling the field, ignoring the snaps of laser fire streaking overhead and the strange luminous balls of energy being fired back at their brothers on the walls. The aliens were deploying some kinds of portable shields, big semicircular deflectors that absorbed laser fire like it was nothing. And there were _a lot of them_.

Then Shiv took a green bolt of energy through the eye and went down, vitals instantly flatlining. Whatever it was, it had come out of the darkness from the top of the earthworks. Something was up there.

Another hundred feet more, and the Commander had finally tripped the explosives. The light flare shamed the lightning of the storm as hundreds of meters of the earthworks collapsed in plumes of mud and flame. The divide between the two arms of earthworks sloughed off and filled in the carefully placed demolition charges brought down the mounds to fill the gap. He would've cheered if he could have, seeing fleeting impressions of bodies vaporized atop parts of the earthworks, but with so much land to cover and so few explosives, he knew it was just a delaying action.

His real goal was the artillery.

Tracker was the last to die. They had been less than two hundred feet from the earthworks when something came out of the darkness and sent King flying. He landed on his back, skidding in the muck, and saw an enormous shadowed form charging toward Tracker.

"Go!" Tracker had shouted over the short range com. "I'll draw him off, complete the objective!" Blue lances from a DC lit up the night, and King could see some kind of enormous, shaggy monster bearing down on his brother.

But Tracker was right. The alien was chasing Tracker, who was running directly away from the earthworks. King had a clear shot. So he ran, head down, legs pumping, blood hammering in his ears as he heard his brother's shouts and grunts as he tried to fight whatever that monster was.

Tracker had gone silent all too quickly.

And now here he is, all alone, slithering through the mud toward one of the strange artillery pieces. It is shamed like some kind of deep-sea mollusk, all smooth lines and domed armor. A flanged projection off the back glows bright, and then slams out another one of those devastatingly beautiful plasma bolts. King snorts as he sees it hovering on a cushion of air - so much for the mud slowing down any vehicles. An AT-TE would've ground to a halt and even a Juggernaut would have a problem, but these aliens just float over it all.

But the artillery is alone. There are no aliens nearby, just one peeking out of a hatch on the top. It seems almost bored, resting chin on hand as it idly rotates back and forth in what looks like some kind of gun cradle. Keeping an eye on the alien, King creeps forward. Another bolt launches away, off to kill another bunch of his brothers, no doubt. Any other being would've had to fight the urge to get up and charge, eager to save the lives of their comrades, but King is a Commando of the Grand Army. Trained to be the best, ready to die for the Republic.

When the charge is planted, King slides out from underneath the artillery, the pressure on his chest suddenly vanishing. _Way stranger than a repulsorlift_ , he thinks, and wiggles away from the hovering construct. The explosive satchel was in place, right in the centre of the vehicle, adhered to the strange metal it was made of. Flick of a thumb, and it would go up in so many pieces.

He can only hope his other brothers had succeeded in their missions, because one is not enough. All five need to go, or else this battle is over before it really begun.

He takes one final look around, scanning through the various wavelengths with his visor, and, confident that no other enemies are nearby, slowly gets to his feet, crouching behind the tank.

And the tank, impossibly, starts to turn to face him.

"Oh, krif."

He knows he can't run. The mud is too thick, too dense. He knows he can't fight it. He knows he can't hide, now. How they saw him, detected him, he'll never know.

He pulls out the detonator as the tank comes to a halt facing him, the alien in the gun cradle half out of the turret and peering down at him in what he imagines is complete surprise.

"Compliments of Iota squad."

* * *

The last artillery piece dies ten minutes from the fourth, and the shelling finally stops, but it's a mixed blessing. CC-2224 is pacing, because the hologram tells him nothing good. Swaths of red fill the display, a sea of it on the field between the fortress and the smoldering earthworks. The artillery pieces, firing uncontested for almost two hours, have done their job. He is down to one hundred and seventy-two ambulatory troopers, another sixteen critically injured. Most of the wall is in ruins, molten and running, throwing out blankets of steam as the rain strikes superheated stone. The keep is still holding well enough, and he suspects they were trying to take down the wall so they could encircle the keep, and prevent any escapes. Of the weapons salvaged from the battered LAAT/i, only one composite is still intact, and two of the antipersonal lasers. While they had reaped a toll of their own, with the wrecks of four of the smaller, bright purple speeders and two of the large dual wheeled vehicles scattered across the killing field, the artillery pieces had homed in on them all too quickly, and Cody had been forced to give the order to cease firing. Out on the field, there are dozens of those strange shield generators, giving mobile protection to the aliens as they advanced.

And from his five squads of commandos, not a single one has reported back in. Three ARCS had also been sent as support, and all are silent as well. He can only assume the worst, and has mentally removed them from the list of assets. He circles the hologram again, racking his brain for anything, _anything_ that could pull this out, but a sharp voice across the com cuts off his musing.

"Commander! They're on the move!" The hologram shimmers and updates and he sees for himself. In three prongs, the aliens are advancing, no, _charging_ across the field toward the shattered walls and the keep.

"They have heavy...mechs? I don't know what they are sir, but we can't scratch them. They're leading the charge and we-" the transmission cuts off with a shriek of superheated air, and the keep shakes. The hologram flickers and loses resolution, but CC-2224 is already out the door, pulling his deece to his shoulder.

On the walls of the keep it is chaos. The composite is firing, bright beam of green light howling off the wall into the stormy dark below. It traces lines in the mud, sending up curtains of steam and flash-dried soil, briefly illuminating tiny forms before they erode under its punishment. But as his gaze follows another burst of laser fire, he sees it strike some massive, vaguely humanoid form, which does not vanish or fall. Instead, the composite laser simply leaves a glowing line along an enormous shield-like limb, and as lightning lights the sky, Cody sees not one, not two, but _fifty_ of the monstrous forms lumbering toward the keep, each with a horde of other shapes at their back.

One raises a limb, and boiling green light lazily spins out, a long tendril licking from the creature to the keep, blasting troopers off their feet as it eats into the aged stone and then cores a line down the facing, calving off an entire segment of the wall. The keep groans, masonry quaking loose and falling away down into the dark.

He knows immediately they can't hold the keep. Their only chance is to bottleneck the enemy at one of the gates where their superior numbers and weaponry can't be all brought to bear at once.

"Fall back! Pattern Aurek, reform in the hall and gateroom! Get that composite down from there, we're going to need it-" Cody grabs a passing trooper by the arm, and shoves him towards the composite laser. The trooper doesn't even respond, instantly dashing up the short flight of stairs to aid the gun crew in breaking it down.

* * *

This is it, he knows. The gates are gone, blasted away in green fire from the alien heavies, and now his troopers cluster around the edges of the frame, occasionally leaning out to fire down the causeway toward the advancing aliens. They are close enough now Cody can hear the guttural shouts and snarls as the alien commanders no doubt bark orders to their underlings.

The language is unknown, and his translation software can't make heads or tails of it.

Not that it matters. They're here to kill his men, and that's all he has to know.

They can't hold this, and he knows it's time for the final option. He calls the last seven ARCs, and sends with them a detachment of two platoons of troopers.

"Make for the caves," he says. "Seal them off, and go silent. Wait for rescue, and make _sure_ the Republic gets the telemetry from the _Murmillo_ and from your combat cameras." He hands off the datachip from _Murmillo_ , and A-03 takes it gravely.

"It's been an honor, commander." the ARC says, snapping a salute.

"It has. Now go make me proud." The ARCS and troopers rush off, making for the stairs down toward the entrance to the caves within the keep. Cody turns back to his dwindling soldiers, and knows this is where he dies. He can't really ask for better than to die alongside his brothers, doing the Republic proud. Once again, he wishes General Kenobi was here, but since wishes aren't standard issue Army gear, he pushes it aside and brings up his deece. They'll take their toll before the aliens kill them all, he's sure of it.

* * *

The Sangheili plants his cloven foot against the strange white armor of the human, and with a kick hurls it off the blades of his energy sword to slam into a wall. It slides down slowly, leaving a trail of red blood on the stone. The young Sangheili, a duelist of rare skill and aptitude, already an Ultra, looks at Tuls 'Turamee in shock, as if he cannot believe his eyes.

"Were they all demons?" he asks with some trepidation, almost afraid to hear the answer. Tuls shakes his head, and crouches next to one, this one distinct by dint of its yellow highlights on its armor. It is still alive, barely, he can tell, with a deep plasma burn in its chest. He grabs its helmet, and with a wrench, tears it away. A dark skinned face, lined and worn stares back up at him, a trickle of blood leaking down its cheek.

"Hmph. This is no demon. They are false demons, who pretend to be those they are not." Tuls reached out one hand, grabbing the human's chin and turning its head from side to side. There is a strange look to it, as it if it is somehow...stretched, or attenuated. Like it is young-but-old. It's close cropped hair is black, and he looks into its eyes, and is surprised to see not a single hint of fear. The human stares back in a hard-edged glare.

There is honor to this heretic, inasmuch as a heretic can have honor. Tuls flexes his hand, and the short bladed energy dagger snaps into life above his gauntlet, and he drives it into the human's chest. The human's eyes bulge and its mouth works, but no sound comes out. He lets it slump back as he stands.

"They fought well, for infidels. Be proud and honored, my brothers, for we have won a great victory today! The Forerunner smile on us, and know that those who died will be borne with honor unto the Great Journey." Tuls takes in the large chamber, covered in blast marks and char, littered with white armored bodies, dead Unggoy and Kig-yar, and his mandibles spread in a grin within his mask.

He has spilt the blood of many humans this night, and they fought well enough for it to be a treat. He has killed many thousands personally in the past, and while the slaughter of the young has its own delight, he savors the knowledge when he kills humans that fight well; for he knows with their demise the armies of the infidels are that much weaker and closer to their inevitable defeat.

Deciding that this is an enemy worth remembering, he crouches down again, and with his plasma knife, slices off the battered yellow pauldron from the human's armor. He holds it up, inspecting it, feeling the texture of the material, and decides it will go nicely in his collection. There is a helmet from the human elite soldiers with the strange runes "Helljumper" on it, along with a skull from a Brute chieftain who dared question his authority.

As he waves to his troops, leading them outside to where Phantoms descend from _Path of the Penitent_ in orbit, he wonders how his brother's hunt progresses.


	4. They are hunting him back

He has hunted humans before. On another world, a thousand lightyears away, he tracked the survivors of a fallen garrison. In truth, it was pitiful sport. They were broken, wretched things, scrabbling away in the hinterlands of their world. Their colony already a broken ruin - their fleets rubble. Tuls thought him foolish, and wanted to burn the world from orbit and be done with it. Other campaigns called to them, and word was of a prophet consolidating a mighty force to push against a newly uncovered cluster of human worlds.

Norna did not care what his brother thought. His brother was cooler, calculating. He could see the ember glow of a silent world from space and be warmed by the simple knowledge he had executed his duty. Norna could not. He needed to see the blood spilt, the bodies cloven, the last gasps whispered into his ears. He has always taken pleasure in his duties, but humans elevate that pleasure to a different level. There is a delicious resiliency in the fragile creatures, and every time he snuffs it out, it is a treat.

On that day, years ago, he hunted _'oh'dee esstyeez'_. He know little of the human's military or it's organization, but those under his command gossip and exchanged tales and stories. Tortures and interrogations of captured humans lend the spice of truth to this gossip, and the strange appellation seems to apply to the more elite of the human's soldiers. They are no Demons, to be sure, but these _oh'dee esstyeez_ had a ferocity that sometimes rivaled that of a Jiralhanae.

On that day, years ago, Norna had hunted three humans, one of whom was dying. It was an extermination, like clearing out pests from a keep's granary.

This, is different.

These humans are not dying, and they are hunting him back.

It is _exhilarating_.

He pauses, hoof-deep in a shimmering pool. The soft ripples lap against the stone edges, and he sees the thread-glimmer spanning the pool. With careful precision, he steps high, placing one foot past the line, shifting his weight, then lifting and cautiously stepping over. His helmet, correcting for the gloom in the caverns, picks out the boxy shape of an explosive charge nestled into a fan of stalagmites. With chopping motions, he indicates it for the SpecOps Unggoy following him. His Elites would not stoop to clearing such a thing, but the Unggoy produces his tools without question.

One by one, his Elites step across the wire, all careful not to come within several hand-spans of it. A half collapsed chamber several hours previous taught them the sensitivity of these devices. With the rest of his lance past the trap, Norna leads the way once more.

For hours, they have hunted the last humans through these caverns. To another, more artistically minded, the geological structure would be breathtaking - crystals and minerals glimmer and flash from every corner. Stalactites and stalagmites join to shape enormous, serried vaults. Norna briefly imagines a Huragok might lose it's simple mind in such a place, so fascinated are they by oddities of the universe.

What Norna sees in the play of light across still pools and facets of crystal is a taxing environment for his active camouflage to endure.

In the arches of stalagmites, he sees a thousand potential sniper hides.

In the branching tunnels and wending ways he sees innumerable ambush spots.

And in the calm waters of the pools he sees treacherous footing and potential sinkholes that could swallow his soldiers whole.

This cavern is as much an enemy as the humans he hunts, one that is passive and biding, but no less deadly.

''Srilee, Y'moree. Take those branches with your lances. Ultamee, Ophinree, take that branch. The rest with me. Active camoflage will _remain active at all times_. I want their leader alive. I want his head personally. I will take _your_ head otherwise.' His three lances, Sangheili veterans all, move without complaint, comment or confusion. They have prosecuted the holy crusade across a dozen worlds together. They are as intimate as a family. As trusted as a clan.

They will not fail him, nor he them.

* * *

A-03 knows they are coming. The knuckle sized sensors they seeded during their retreat through the caverns return ghosts and strange readings. Nothing concrete, but the patterns of disruption have clear movement and intent. Whatever is hunting them is invisible, but not wholly undetectable.

Hours ago, they had all felt the distant _crump_ of a detonation, signalling at least one of hastily wired booby-trap had done it's job. Since then, though, the caverns had remained eerily silent. No other of the two dozen traps had gone off since then, and A-03 is beginning to suspect that whoever was hunting them had learned their lesson, and learned it well.

A shame, really. He had hoped for at least a few more successful detonations. Anything to trim down the numbers of the strange aliens hunting them. He was certain that Commander Cody was dead, along with the rest of the survivors of the _Murmillo_ , thus leaving him the sole commander of Republic forces on this cursed world. His other six ARCs are out in the caverns, each alone and each setting up their own unique ambushes. ARCs are solitary creatures, bred and trained to be the pinnacle of disruption tactics and guerilla warfare. Put one ARC into a combat zone, and the tide is turned. Put a half dozen, and it is practically unfair.

At least, it would've been in any other circumstance.

Whoever these aliens were, they have technology and weaponry that makes him feel like he is throwing rocks. He'd seen one of the giant aliens, what appeared to be the officer caste, take half a clip from a DC-16. Every shot impact glimmering shields wrapped around it's nine feet of muscle and bright purple armor, before it leapt five meters from a standstill to punch a clone's head clean off.

Overwhelming weight of fire is needed to burn through their shields in short order, but bringing it to bear on these officers is almost impossible the face of the combined forces of this alien army.

It is, he reflects, a frighteningly effective setup. There were the line troops, squat, broad aliens shorter than your average human, but quick enough and each armed with pistols that hurled plasma or strange slugthrowers whose crystalline rounds sought out targets as they flew. These aliens didn't appear all too bright, some even screaming in fear and running away when a mine had blown one of the officer caste apart, but they had weight in numbers. Then there were the specialist caste, strange bird-like aliens that brought to mind more ferocious mrlssi. These aliens all carried glimmering energy shields strapped to one arm, which seemed far more durable than the full body shielding the officers had, though with the caveat of covering less of the body and being directional. These specialists filled in the role of snipers, mobile cover and quick reconnaissance, some even turning invisible through what had to be impossibly miniatured cloaking devices. Each the height of a clone, they had a strength to their wiry frames, even though A-03 had claimed three with his vibroblade.

Then there were the officers, each acting as a magnet and a lodestone to a fight, providing command and firepower around which the soldier caste and specialist caste turned.

Then of course there was the tank caste. A-03 isn't aware of any of them falling before CC-2224 ordered him and his brothers into the caves.

Whoever these aliens are, he realized they must have a history of warfare centuries, if not millenia long to have settled into such complementary and mutually-supporting roles. Almost like each species was custom tailored to fit, and the thought was worrying.

If this is an outrider fleet, a scouting one - what if these aliens arrived on the Republic's doorstep with full fledged invasion fleets? The Republic was already staggering in the face of multiple CIS offensives, another front against a far more technologically, and, though he hates to admit it, tactically superior enemy would be a death knell.

He clutches the datachip in his hand, the one into which CC-2224 has sequestered as much information from the _Myrmillo_ and from various recording devices throughout the battle. It has everything about these aliens and their capabilities. If this is a precursor to an invasion, the Republic absolutely needs this intelligence.

He can only hope smarter minds than his would be able to pick out a weakness to exploit.

There's a crackle of detonations, and he shakes out of his thoughts. Another tripmine fired, but the sensors detected no movement near it before it did. Misfire?

The ground thumps under him, dust shaking loose from the ceiling. He places a hand against the chute of rock he is tucked inside, momentarily concerned for the stability. The shaking fades, but again the sensors by the latest tripmine that went off still hadn't seen a thing. Tracing the path between the three, he estimates which would be next.

Just as the holo of the sensor in that cavern flickers to life, there is a flash of bright light, and a few moments later he feels the shake.

 _Fierfek_.

They've figured out the pattern. He had laid tripmines and remote explosives leading toward dead end tunnels, in the hopes of trapping at least some of their pursuers. Maybe it would stall the search as they worked to free trapped brethren, though the brutality of their assault and casual disregard for their own lives made that last part a remote chance.

The aliens must've realized this, and were pre-emptively detonating these traps, using them instead to close off avenues in which they might get flanked or ambushed from. They were bringing down whole sections of the cavern system, narrowing down the playing field. As networks of his sensors winked out, A-03 smiled grimly.

Whoever the commander was, he clearly didn't want to just shut them in here and let them rot. No, this alien wanted a confrontation, as direct as possible.

That's a weakness. He breaks radio silence, contacting A-09.

'Enemy commander is trying to herd us. I think he's itching for a fight.'

'Confirm, sir. That's my speculation too.'

'Here's the plan: I have the datachip, but the contents are encrypted and compressed. I can pass it via databurst to any one of us.' He calls up a holo, sketches of the cavern system hovering in midair, filled with gaps and static. It's not perfect and it's far from comprehensive, but it gives an idea. With a motion, he overlays the beacons of the other ARCs and the handful of troopers.

'A-61, you're the deepest and the farthest. You're getting the data. The rest of us will force a fight _here_ ,' with a gesture, a marker is pinged out to all the ARCs, 'and hopefully take as many hunters with us as we can. Go deep, A-61, go as deep and as dark as you can. Find a hole and climb into it. If you can get underwater too, do it. Get down and don't come out for as long as possible. Maybe we can convince them we tried for a last stand.'

'Sir-' It's A-61. He knows what he will say. He'll say what all ARCs would, what he himself would if given those orders. But A-03 knows that only one thing matters. Not their lives, not their sense of duty or brotherhood. It's getting that data _out_ and back to the Republic.

'Another time, A-61. For the Republic.'

'For the Republic.' The reply is scratchy, as A-61 is already four hundred meters away and rapidly stretching that distance. To his credit, as soon as the order was given, A-03 saw the ARC's beacon start moving.

'Transmitting now.' He plugs the chip into his armor, and lets his amplified commander and communication suite blurt it out. A-61 confirms receipt, and it's done.

Done and done. Time to go. He slides forward and down, rolling to a crouch as he comes out of the crevice. The cave he is in is pitch-black, shaded into green by the filters in his visor.

'Make best speed to beacon. We have to beat them there.'

* * *

Norna holds his fist up, bringing his lance to a halt. The tunnel they are in is waist-deep with crystal clear water, sloshing about them, nearly neck-deep to the Unggoy.

'Drone.' 'Furamee, one of his lance, produces a globe of silvery-blue metal, and it hums to life. Blessed by the prophets, each drone is autonomous and possessed of a simple but inquisitive mind. It will fly ahead and investigate for them, relaying picture back to his wrist-gauntlet's projector.

It leaps into the air from 'Furamee's hands, buzzing down the tunnel, out of sight almost immediately. The shimmering glow from the veins of mineral ore and luminescent fungi does not reach far.

'A nexus…' he murmurs as the drone feeds back information, scouting farther and farther ahead. The tunnel broadens until it joins a larger cavern, this one more than a hundred meters in width, with a ceiling lost in the gloom. Other tunnels convene into it, each junction broadening the cavern.

For a moment he is concerned - these caverns seem to never end. Already they have traversed kilometers, and while the routes they have trodden are stored safely within the battlenet, how many dozens, or Forerunner preserve them, _hundreds_ of kilometers might still remain? Perhaps his brother is correct - they should return to the ship and simply purify the entire continent from above.

Then the drone's feed cuts out, it's readings showing several figures in stained and muddy armor taking up positions behind stalagmites and next to shelves of rock.

The concern is gone, banished in an instant as he understands these humans. He has seen this behaviour before, and while he does not credit them, he does appreciate it. Instead of running, instead of trying in vain to escape their inevitable doom, he has seen some humans turn and dig in their heels. He has seen them choose to die in a final stand together, trying to kill as many of the Covenant who came for them as possible. They were never very successful, of course, and ultimately it made the job of purging them from existence that much quicker, but it was the closest to honorable this debased race ever came.

It seemed these strange humans shared the proclivity.

Behind his mask, his mandibles spread in joy.

This is what he had been waiting for, why he hunted.

The final battle, the culmination of the hunt, when he and his quarry finally came face to face.

* * *

 _Hiya guys. Not as long as the first chapter, and I've been sitting on this nigh-on a month now. Might as well drop it, and bring this story even closer to a total conclusion. I had not originally intended on going beyond the original two chapters, as Norna and A-03's plotline could well be left up to the imagination of the reader, but this all kind of fell out of me one day in short order._

 _Thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed it thus far. Let me know with a review!_

 _Until next time, I'll be spinning wraithbone and avoiding drukhari;_

the bonesinger of yme-loc


	5. Efficient

The thing with thermal detonators is that they aren't very effective explosives.

You take any grenade, any rocket munition, and what does it do? Light, heat, force, debris. You string up mines, and they turn anything in a ten meter radius into mulch, and cripple or injure even farther than that. Anti-vehicle munitions are shaped charges, designed to blast _into_ the vehicle. Turn the inside into a soup of shrapnel that would kill anyone.

But a thermal detonator, see, it doesn't do those things. Light, sure. Heat, oh yes. Force? Nothing. Debris? You wish.

What a thermal detonator was ideal for was making very serious problems go away in very short order. High value targets, breaching fortifications. Things like that.

Or in this case, A-03 considers, as he bounces his last in his hands, maybe evening the odds a little without bringing the entire cave system down on their heads.

The nexus he has chosen for their final stand, for the pantomime that hopefully let -61 escape without a trace, is already filling with hoots and growls from the aliens as they take up positions along two of the arterial tunnels leading into the chamber. His own clones are laying down fire as best they can, keeping the aliens thinking more about cover than combat.

From his scanners, it is looking like about fifty or sixty of them to the shattered remains of his two platoons of troopers: all told fifty-three, counting him and his ARCs. In any other situation, he'd consider them at advantage, but these aliens hadn't cared about things like blasters or the accepted order of the galaxy.

Now, he is feeling deeply outnumbered.

The chamber, taken from above, resembles a splayed, four fingered hand. His clones hold the thumb of the fingers, using stalagmites and outcroppings of stones where the tunnel feeds into the 'hand' of the chamber for cover, while the aliens approach from each of the four 'fingers', making use of the same. Scatterings of stalagmites, ravines and shelves of rock dot the chamber, though it is mostly flat and clear. A killing ground.

'12, can you determine their commander?'

'Negative. There's seven distinct groupings, near as I can tell. Each with a definite commander, but I can't pick out who has operational command.'

'Give me locations of all seven.'

A moment later, his HUD lights with waypoints marking out seven of the command caste aliens. From his vantage point, he has theoretical lines to three of them, the other four taking up positions too far away from his location in the chamber.

Well, he only had a one-in-seven chance of getting it right anyway.

He picks one at random, smiling as he sees that _two_ are close enough that he just might make it work.

Okay, two-in-seven odds. Doubled his chances.

 _Efficient_.

No time for second thoughts – he puts his body into the throw, arcing the tarnished ball out from behind the ridge of water-stained limestone he had been lurking behind. It describes a parabola across the hand, almost high enough to lodge in the stalactites far above, before it drops down, clattering and bouncing in the third of the 'fingers'. There's immediate ruckus and movement, and his clones lay fire at the little grunt aliens as they burst from cover, even landing shots against one of the commander caste, the flare of shields evident even across the hundred or so meters of the chamber.

A damned good throw, if he says so himself.

The thermal detonator goes off.

There's a flash of incandescent light that blasts stark, hard edged shadows from every rock and stalagmite in the chamber, a surprisingly quiet crackle-buzz, and then it's over.

There's a forty-meter sphere bitten out of the third and fourth fingers leading into the chamber. Perfectly smooth, perfectly spherical. At a distance, he sees one of the grunt aliens standing stock still, toes right on the edge of the steep depression. Three shots from a sharpshooter take it down before it can process what just happened.

Thermal detonators. They vaporize everything in their blast radius, but are just so damned _clean_ at not touching anything even a micron outside of it.

He cycles his HUD, and it returns only five of the commander signals.

Okay, he figures, I got him or I didn't.

Sensors also return a little over thirty enemy contacts now.

Okay, he figures, those are much more comfortable odds.

* * *

Norna wants to deny it. He blinks, once, hard, but the world does not return to the expected order.

The greater part of four lances are gone, along with Ugakee and Ophinree. Gone.

Removed.

Utterly without honor.

He is shaking. He is shaking, vibrating and for a single, lucid second, he wonders why.

Then the red descends, and he bellows from tetrad jaws, spittle flying against the interior of his helmet.

' _Kill them all!'_

As one, his elites break from cover, driving their grunts before them. The ignition of a dozen plasma swords echoes in the chamber, joining with the sizzle-crack of plasma pistols and the high-pitched whine of overheating rifles.

* * *

The aliens are charging.

They are _charging_.

They are rushing his men and in the handful of seconds he knows he is going to have, A-03 considers just how wrong he was about these aliens. He had expected, hoped, that losing their commander might throw some disarray into their numbers. Might make them even more cautious, let him and his troopers last longer, buy more time for -61.

He just removed perhaps a fourth, a third, of their force in a single action, and instead they are _charging._

His troopers, to their credit, open up. Full auto. No careful precision, no rationing ammo. Deeces with the trigger held down spray cyan bolts downrange, the lovely, comforting sound of blasterfire overriding the unnatural chime of the alien's own guns.

It won't be enough. It's been a handful of seconds since the thermal detonator went off.

Most of the commander caste are _halfway across the chamber_. Fifty meters in six, maybe seven seconds.

They were outpacing fekking _droidekas_.

He has enough time to bring up his westar, and fire off a grenade. It arcs above the bolts zinging back and forth, striking a commander caste in the chest, blowing it backwards and off its hooves. There's a crackle of lightning around it, and two following laser bolts catch it in the neck and chin and blow it's head off.

So much to just take down one.

But at the least, the chamber funnels their charge. Positioned as they are at the 'thumb' of the hand, the aliens must cover the most space to reach them. Formations of stone provide moments of cover, but it's clear they have no intention of slowing down. The dozen or so waving laser swords make their intention clear.

They want the clones dead by hand.

Close and personal.

Inefficient.

The force of the charge is slowing. Blunted by bangs of grenades, cracks of sniper rifles and sheer Republic courage.

One of the commander aliens bellows something, reaching up and tearing off its helmet.

On instinct, he zooms in, eyeing for the first time the face of his enemy.

It looks like nothing he has ever seen. Reptilian, scaled, with a flaring bundle of mandibles spread wide to reveal fangs and teeth.

Definitely something new.

And one of the commander caste next to the bare-headed one takes the brunt of A-12's rotary blaster in its chest, several dozen high powered rounds blowing through its shields and armor. Luminescent, indigo blood spatters across the exposed face.

But it doesn't slow. It leaves it's slumped compatriot behind, and then they're among the clones.

They're in the tunnel, and it's snapshots, it's snippets of moments as he is firing, firing, tossing aside his westar as it runs dry, as he spins a grunt around and wedges his vibroblade behind its face mask.

It's an alien laser sword slicing A-12 in half, igniting the paint on his armor and burning his kama to a crisp.

It's four troopers pinning down a commander caste with their own bodies while one holds a grenade against it's chest.

It's him body-checking an alien against a stalagmite, gasping at the impact, like hitting a solid wall, it's wrestling with it, feeling the outside of his armor bubble as he desperately holds its arm at length, sword flaring sun-hot. It's A-66 shoving his own westar against the alien's armpit and holding down the trigger, it's A-03 catching the sword as the alien slumps down, arm severed, body ventilated.

It's the bareheaded alien wrapping it's hand around A-66's head and _squeezing_ , the tortured sound of plastoid deforming, the shriek of A-66 in his ears cut off by a _crunch._

It's realizing he's the last, he's surrounded by his clones, he can't feel his left hand, his right is slowly cooking as he holds tight to the hilt of the alien sword.

The walls are painted in blood, clone and alien, sprayed and mixed together. It drips from the rock, it pools in the crevices. There's white armor everywhere, stained with red and streaked with char-black.

There's a lot of aliens too. Commander caste surrounded by rings of clones, who brought them down with numbers when weapons weren't enough. The smaller aliens, the grunts, riddled with blaster burns, some ruptured, detonated from within.

He's all that's left. It's been twenty seconds or twenty minutes. The sweat drenching him, the ache in his muscles gives no clue as to which.

The bareheaded alien tosses aside A-66, shaking his soldier's…his brother's brains from it's fingers.

It snarls something, a low growl, a cough of hatred.

There's only seven other commander caste around them, each of them with a lit sword in hand. None of the grunts are standing.

Efficient.

It would've been nice to have had another detonator. They were all so conveniently close and packed together.

He brings up his communication suite one last time.

'61, your orders remain. Tell General Kenobi what happened here. Tell him we died for the Republic. A-03 over and out.'

There isn't a response. That would have been unprofessional and risky.

He knows his brother heard it. He can feel it.

Maybe the Jedi's Force is telling him.

The bareheaded alien takes a step closer, and he waits chime of their guns.

It gestures, coughs more unintelligible snarls and growls.

And still they do not kill him.

It raises its sword, lateral across its body, and he understands.

He recognizes it from the Jedi he's served with, from some of the cultures that have been caught up in the civil war that's tearing the galaxy in two.

It's about honor.

One on one.

A-03 raises his own sword, the heat of it crackling the paint across his chest. Such a weapon, small wonder they had such strong shields when even bearing it was deadly.

The alien nods and to his surprise lets out a long breath, clouding in the chill air, then _bows_.

He raises two fingers to his brow in salute.

When it moves, it is a blur.

It's strangely painless. The tines of the alien's weapon spear from his back, boiling away most of the organs in his chest. The last thing his mind registers is his own sword, held out straight, sunk halfway to the hilt in the alien.

He's seen it with the Jedi, and some of the cultures that have been caught up in the civil war that's tearing the galaxy in two.

Honor, and self-sacrifice.

Efficient.

* * *

Tuls is pacing below his Phantom. It's engines mutter above him, downdrafts keeping the rain at bay. Already, all of his troops have returned to the _Penitent_ in orbit. The Prophet herself had contact him, asking what was the delay. Norna had been gone for hours, hours stacked upon hours. The depth of the caves and their minerology precluded transmissions to his brother, but the occasional quiet rumble in the stones and mud beneath his hooves lets him know the fight continues.

No word as the rays of morning slowly lighten the leaden sky, even as the rains continue.

But he is not concerned.

The humans cannot not kill Norna 'Turamee

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 _Hey, look, I finished it. Just a short story overall, a bit of action, a bit of flavor, a bit of fun. It was interesting writing the different textures of the clone and Sangheili POVs. The clones, I hew very much toward a professional, dedicated, and perhaps a little simple-minded aspect. The ARCs have more personality than the troopers, and even the Commanders. The Covenant, of course, are much more baroque and intense in their mindsets, steeped in tradition. It was a fun contrast. I don't think I'll explore this 'setting' again, though I did have an image in mind for when Open Circle investigates the vanishing of the_ Murmillo _. If that ever goes anywhere, it'll be added as an epilogue._

 _I wasn't planning on it ending this way, either. A-03 and his clones were going to have a drawn out siege with Norna and his elites, finally culminating in them being stamped out. But A-03 didn't want to die like that. He was going to fight, dammit, and I had to let him._

 _For a note on the composition of Norna's force, since I had thoughts on it's organization. It's seven lances of 8-9 individuals. Norna and his two closest lieutenants command lances entirely of Sangheili. Ophinree, Ultamee, Srilee and Y'moree command large lances of Unggoy SpecOps. So it's about 24 or so Sangheili and around thirty, thirty-five Unggoy._

 _This story is complete. What began close to a year ago as nothing more than an elaborate response to an /r/whowouldwin prompt spun out into it's own little tale. To those who have found this story and read it, thank you for your time, and I hope you enjoyed it. Leave a review if you like, they're always nice to see._

 _Until next time, I'll be shouting at psytronomes and juggling spiritstones;_

 _the bonesinger of yme-loc_


End file.
